


Blessed

by xHonestSecretsx



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hypersexual coping, Out of Character, Romantic Fluff, Thrall - Freeform, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-01 14:12:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16766710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xHonestSecretsx/pseuds/xHonestSecretsx
Summary: After his brother Hvitserk gifts him a Viking-Born English thrall, Ivar falls a little too quick for her magic fingers and sweet demeanor.





	1. Chapter I: Slave Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this work will have hypersexual coping after an attempted sexual assault. I will put a warning on the containing chapter. This is an old piece that I have not edited tenses.

You were one of the fortunate. As a mere toddler, you were the only spared from Aethelwulf’s massacre on the families in Wessex. Then, you were given another chance yet again in York; by what you later learned was Prince Hvitserk who hauled you over his shoulder.

The two brothers were speaking in tongues you didn’t recognize. Hvitserk was speaking too fast– and Ivar was speaking with an audible sigh. Their tongues rattled quick one against another as you stood waiting, smoothing over your skirt and looking between the two. A forlorn longing to understand their tongues took you over– you never learned.

“She does not look like a Saxon.” The dark one rasps, face reddened by splatters of blood. His hair was tightly rolled, dark leather of his armour shifting as he stood assisted by his crutch.

“I know! Isn’t she pretty?” Hvitserk says, braids bobbing. “Do you want her brother?”

Ivar’s eyes snap back to his brother. “Me?” He asks. The girl was pretty— her long hair was braided in an adorable twist down her back, delicate against her skin. But there was something other than that. Ivar’s eyes trail over her jaw to her pouty lips when Hvitserk interjects.

“If you don’t want her, I’ll keep her in my bed.” Hvitserk reaches for your wrist, finding that Ivar’s hand threw him off with a ‘tsk’ off his lips. Ivar faces you.

“What is your name?” He says in a confusing click of foreign words. You stare with the whites of your eyes slightly shown and eyebrows causing creasing in your forehead.

“I… I’m sorry. I don’t understand you.” You whisper, lifting your fingers to a few flyaways in your hair. The dark haired man sighed, now shifting in his tongue to one you recognized.

“I said, what is your name, girl?”

“(Y/N).”

Ivar turns towards the door. You stay in place, looking up to Hvitserk’s puppylike face when the dark haired man whistles back at you.

“What are you doing?” He asks. “Come.”

You dart after Ivar, stopping just inches behind as he dragged himself forward. The room he led you to was vast, desecrated religious articles and a vast bath that was being filled to the rim with water. He waves off the cute blonde and motions you over. You undress him as he needed, watching as he somehow manages himself into the bath– you feel ashamed as you wonder how he learned to handle himself so well. He reclines into the bath, broad arms set over the sturdy wooden rim.

He isn’t saying anything at all. Rather– he seems to just melt into the bath. Perhaps in a way it should be expected. This commander of that vast army must have been exhausted. You look to he cloth set in a wooden pail and take it, inching closer. His eyes are shut and remain that way as you dip the cloth into the water. But the very second you bring it to his bloodied face, Ivar’s hand snaps to your wrist against his face.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“You’re dirty. I want to clean you.” You say quite obviously meaning… just about all of him. Ivar’s lazy blue eyes slide over your lips. So he was dirty… he huffs out a breath of air.

“Go ahead.” He says. You slide the cloth over his cheek with light circles, drawing the blood into the cloth as you worked his face clean. You would clean the cloth in the pail by your side, avoiding dirtying him as much as you could. Then– came the task of cleaning the rest of him. Ivar almost seems to enjoy the shy blush over your cheeks as you travel his muscles, following your fingers traveling lower and lower. It would have been unbecoming to clean his cock– but you can’t convince yourself to clean everything else but it! You had even cleaned his legs already.

“It’s fine, Christian girl.” He teases the rag of your fingertips. “I forget that you may look like us– but you are shy.”

After he cleans himself, you decide to move behind him, sliding out his braids from their ties. Then as his hair falls from the braids, you gingerly pour another pail of water over his head. One of your hands forms a cup at the hairline of his head, careful as to not pour any water over his freshly cleaned face.

“You’re not scared?” Ivar spreads his lips to say.Your fingers are remarkably gentle, teasing him through the motions of circles and spirals. He wasn’t sure if you knew how this gesture could be taken– affectionate between man and his wife.

“I don’t think I should be.” You answer, massaging his scalp carefully. Ivar drops his head back into your fingertips through your good work, each motion more soothing than the last. He curses himself for loving the attention rather than the quick wash he became so accustomed to in his time in this land. After another rinse, you realized– he fell asleep!

“O-Oh.” You cradle his head in your hands, realizing that you’re not sure what to do. Just sit there and stupidly hold his head like you were already?

“I’m not asleep.” Ivar interjected on your chain of thought.

Well, there went that thought. Ivar hauled himself out– and you dried him too before you both would go to his bed. You slid his furs over him before looking toward the doorway.

“I didn’t say you could leave.” Ivar says, lifting the corner of his furs. You shyly move forward, sliding into the space beside Ivar’s warm body. Ivar reaches out to pull you into his arms, despite how rigid you became.

“If Hvitserk finds you out there, he will try to fuck you. Now stop squirming or I’ll let him.”

You stopped moving real damn quick.


	2. Chapter II: Read the Runes

Wooden chips spread over the table, stained by smoldering black etching. They smell of the billowing smoke of a well lit flame. Most of them you couldn’t remember, but Wunjo was your favourite. You loved how the name fell off your tongue.

“Which is this?” Your master holds up a chip. You still did not know his name by his own tongue. But as the girls told you, he was Ivar the Boneless. Ivar the Boneless, son of Ragnar. Poor Ragnar who left his people in Wessex. Lagertha and Ragnar seemed so certain of that choice which was as misguided as it could get.

“Fe…” You fish for the word in those saucy hues of blue. Everytime you thought you had something– he’d give you that look. The one where you weren’t sure if he was about to congratulate you or slap you off of that short little stool that barely let you reach the table when evenly sitting down.

You were surrounded by these Pagan markings on the table. You didn’t so much mind learning, but Iver has been aggressive in showing you his native tongue. Your native tongue, he insisted. Clack, clack, clack. Your hard nails tapped the oak table as you pondered what the correct answer could have been.

“Fehu.” Ivar sets down a chip, taking another to show you. He reaches out to set it in your hands. You glower at it so that he might see the gears in your mind working overtime to come to a decision.

“Wunjo?” You suggest, unsure of yourself. By the look on his face— you’ve got it! You squeal delightfully, cleaning up the pieces over the table while Ivar massages his temples. When he comes back from commanding such a large force you never seem to ask him how it went. You’re scared to– did they pillage a village you had gone to? Did Ivar… Did Ivar hurt women the way that you thought Hvitserk wanted to hurt you?

“You don’t look like a Saxon.” Ivar suggests. “Did they capture you?”

“My family settled in Wessex.” You say. “Then Prince Aethelwulf came. I don’t know anything after that. My father didn’t like to speak of the Heathens much.”

Ivar snaps something with in the old tongue you began to become accustomed to.

You are heathen.

If you were heathen, you made a very bad one. But then as a Christian, did you not make a very bad one based on lineage? You look aside as Ivar slides the eight pieces into a bag, handing them to you.

“They’re yours.” Ivar says, unable to deny the fact that he made them just for you– but he couldn’t seem to make the words out for you. He wanted to show you the right way… the way back to your people. Instead of looking so shy, meek and Christianlike.

“Thank you.” You say. Ivar sets his hand to his head, motioning for you to go away and leave him. Your head tilts in response.

“You don’t need anything?” You chirp obnoxiously. Ivar groans– as if the very noise itself is what is ailing him. It clicks for you when his hands come up to his head, massaging in small circles around those tight braids.

“I have a headache. You’ll make it worse chirping all night.” He supplies. So maybe you were a bird, chirping and whining all night, but there was something magical about you. As if the gods gifted you to him, you refused to leave his side.

“Lay in bed.” You say, making him oblige. You straddle his waist, head against the furs. In your fingers, you worked a sweet smelling oil before bringing them to his temples.

“What are you going to do?” Ivar growls. It’s another episode of the night before– where your fingers swirling against the beating headache or battle worn aches massage him into a state of peace. He’s not sure he likes it but he knows one thing. It always worked.

“It’s oil. It’ll help your headache.” You supply, finding that the crook in Ivar’s neck? Gone. He’s melting like putty with a dumb smile on his face. You giggle at it. His eyes spread open, half lidded and humming.

“What are you laughing at girl?” He asks.

“You’re like a kitten with massages. I work you a little– and you give me a lot.” You say. He hums lowly. Ivar knows it is the truth. What sort of man was he to rely on your fingers to bring his constant buzzing skull to a state of quiet. For a few hours, he could sleep without the welling hate bubbling out of his gut. It was almost too nice. This time, he let himself sleep in your hands.

* * *

You weren’t here.

You weren’t here and you left him alone in this vast, lonely room with no one around but the crickets that chirp away in the moonlight. Normally it would be of no concern, but there was something bothering him, knots bundling up in his intestines. You left him alone like mother.

He knew you had gone out to rest where he had set your bed– the very corner of the room where you would stay out of the way. You curled in one of Ivar’s furs, resting so peacefully, he almost felt bad when he crawled in beside you. It causes you to whine gently. His arm shifted behind your neck, pulling you into his chest. He told himself that this was just… an itch. Once he scratched it, it would be gone.

“Go to sleep Master…” You shush his thoughts sleepily, lazing a hand on the tight muscles of his chest. And as you roll into his chest, he has the worst thought. Ivar doesn’t fall in love— he doesn’t let himself.

But he’s fucked. How could this happen so quick?


	3. Chapter III: His Mistake

Everything about her plagued him.

When she slept, her lips would pout. Sometimes she’d snore, other times she might grind her teeth so that he had to pop her jaw. When she woke, she always checked on him first. He had been up hours, outlining the slant of your jaw of the brightness of your eyes when your eyelashes parted. As you look at him, your master turned his eyes away.

“Were your legs cold last night?” You yawn, hands pressing against his chest. Ivar grunts, letting his hands wrap freely about your waist. Did you really think he was that fragile? Ivar supposes its as good as an excuse as any.

“Yes.” He says simply.

“More furs tonight.” You stretch out, hands now against his temples while you lay on top of him. Intimate as it was– you seemed unaffected. You massage his head for a few moments until Ivar’s hands came to your wrists, tugging them down.

“Go get dressed.” He says, and you shift over him, looking for a new dress. Ivar watches as you find a creamy white one and fetch the water in a large basin. You clean your hands and face, glancing behind with your fingers at the edge of your dress.

“Master…” You mumble, hiding behind his bed. Ivar growls in distaste for your choice, but rolls around on his side while you dress. So maybe he took a peek or two as the other dress dropped, all creamy soft skin as you pulled on the second gown. It fell over the expanse of your breasts smoothly, curving over your round ass and drapes along the floor. Ivar ducks his head into his hand, pulling his dark hair into his fingers in thought.

He was in too deep. He had to do something about it.

When you came back, your hair was woven behind your back— and Ivar was still lazing in your bed. He sat up while you set the basin into his lap, beginning to braid his hair back.

“I want you to go learn of the gods from a volva today. Then come back here.” Ivar says.

You glance back to him, nodding. Despite it being the sabbath, you would do whatever made him happy. You slid ties onto each little section you crossed, tying the last at the base at the back of his neck.

“Why do you want to show me these things?” You ask. Ivar knew that you were a shy Christian girl. Why was he wasting his time with you? Most heathens would use your labour, your body or just kill you. You dry his face, wiping down his slight moustache before going to grab his clothes for the day’s work.

“You’re lost.” Ivar says as he takes his clothes from you.

“I am?” You say, hands at your waist. “I do not feel lost. I feel happy… with you.”

As you said those words— you realized how it could have come across. That you loved being with him. But you did! You honestly did. It felt as if that was all you needed to be happy. He gazes up at you, hands limp on his overtunic. Then he looks aside, shaking his head and grunting.

“Then make me happy and go learn our ways.” Ivar snaps somewhat.

“I’ll give you more than that, master!” You bounce away from him to go to the door. You find Hvitserk at the entrance– and smile upon him as you run off. It only takes one look from Hvitserk to know. The way Ivar’s eyes glaze over your figure as you pop back in, peeping and waving those little fingers at him and that bright smile that slips out before Ivar could catch it.

“You’ve got it bad, brother.” Hvitserk rubs the corner of his mouth.

Ivar’s smile quickly drops, pulling his gloves over his arms as he looks to his brother. He rolls his eyes, sliding the gloves tight. “What are you talking about?”

Hvitserk jerks his head in the direction you went off in. “You’re in love with the thrall I gave you. It’s only been what… two, three days?” He counts on his fingers, finding that Ivar has no time for his bullshit as he rises on his crutch.

“You’re delusional. I don’t feel anything for her.” Ivar says.

“That is why you called a volva to teach her our ways?” Hvitserk suggests. Ivar stops as he reaches for his axe.

“What is it that you want Hvitserk? You will make me angry.” Ivar then points it at him, finding that Hvitserk stares down upon it with the words caught in his throat. Ivar lowers his axe and slides it into his belt, knowing that what his brother said was true. He couldn’t repeat it– even if he tried. Whether infatuated or in love, he knew that the thought of anyone else touching her threw him into a frenzy.

A low whisper. “What should I do?”

* * *

The Volva was a sweet older woman whom taught you of the gods. You could name the most basic of them and she recounted you the most interesting of stories. Your favourite included Thor and Loki having to dress for a wedding in order to recover Mjolnir and another… of Loki and by god, Ang… Angr… boda! That was it, Angrboda. His second wife– but not at all lower to him in any shape or way. He was her consort.

“I quite like that.” You say, hands at your knees as you grin to the older lady. Her wavy white hair moved this way and that. “In… Saxon Christian thought, women are to be quiet…” You murmur. Perhaps that was why you were so shy.

The older woman sat with her staff in her lap, reaching out to graze her fingers over your eyebrows and against your eyelids. “That is not who we are. You could be so fearsome too. If you would just… let go of the Christ god.” She says.

You weren’t sure of that. You were raised to pray, sit in the background and be a quiet thing. You gave your opinion of the men that were interested in you and respected your parents. They were the only reason you were around, anyway. So to give up everything that you learned? It was hard. But if you were to stay with Ivar… you could set aside such thoughts of obligation and…

“Ah, there it is.” The volva says, “You are thinking of him.”

You feel flush, looking away. “O… Oh, how would you know that?”

“I know a great many things. But this? It’s all over your face, little one.”

You laugh, so it was.

* * *

Hvitserk came to collect you. It was bizarre because while Ivar told you to come back to his rooms, Hvitserk told you to sleep in his bed tonight. You didn’t personally know too much of this new tongue you learned with both the volva and Ivar, but you could pick up on certain things. How Hvitserk made sure you wouldn’t approach Ivar’s door.

“He had a headache.” Hvitserk says to you, holding your shoulders in the hallway.

“I can fix. You… are not my master.” You chirp up to him, a sunshine bright smile on your lips as you pull away from him and move toward your rooms. Hvitserk wasn’t your master after all and you were given directions. Come back. Hvitserk darts after you, pressing his back against the door.

“You don’t want to go in there.” He says. You remember what the volva said to you– you could be fearsome too. You reach out to thrust the door apart, finding the scene inside is just as Hvitserk said. Something you didn’t want to go and see with a buttery blonde, vanilla soft thrall bobbing her head along Ivar’s cock. The warmth of the kindled fire reflects onto his skin and the moment his eyes glance up, hand parting from the gentle braiding of her head, you both regret catching one another’s eyes. You especially.

“I– I’m sorry.” You hold your hands at your mouth as Ivar shoves the thrall off to the side. Hvitserk stands apart when his brother reaches his hand out toward you.

“(Y/N) don’t run. Come… come here.” Ivar calls out in a wavering breath.

“I should… I should go. I’m supposed to clean… clean Hvitserk’s room.” You murmur, grasping Hvitserk’s wrist as you dart away in a fluttering of skirts. Hvitserk can hear the distinct cursing from his brother’s room. He’s sure its an axe that has embedded in the wall when he hears his brother roar.

“Get OUT!” As the slave girl shrieks and tumbles her way into the hallway, Hvitserk knows that his plan to detach his brother from you might have worked a little too well.


	4. Chapter IV: Never My Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Attempted sexual assault of thrall. Illusion to hypersexual coping later.

When Hvitserk suggested he sleep with a thrall– to be sure of his feelings, Ivar was skeptical. But when you walked in on her sucking his dick, he was sure. He didn’t know why he let himself do it if all he thought of was how easily it could have been you. How beautiful you might look splayed underneath him and how he might be able to make you scream.

And yet– now that couldn’t be farther from his reality.

He messed up and now as you cleaned his room, you weren’t even looking at him. You quietly swept the floor, rearranged his things and brought a basin of water without another word. His eyes followed you around the room as you cleaned, seeming to float along the ground in wispy steps.He longed for you to say something to him, flash that sugar sweet smile at him and take care of him… and the words congeal in his throat day after day until one day, he exploded.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” Ivar’s fist slams on the rim of his bath. You flinch as you drop your cloth that strokes over his broad shoulders. Your hands rest on his shoulders as he turns his head with a biting glare.

“I… I have been here, master.” You say.

Ivar’s fist thumps again on the rim, shifting around to face you now. “That is not what I mean and you know it.” Ivar hisses. Your neatly combed hair falls into your eyes, shifting away from him.

“I… I only… I had the wrong impression of what you wanted from me.” You say, leaning up to his head as if to wash his hair, Ivar grasps your wrist.

“What do you mean?” Ivar asks.

“I thought you wanted me.” You say. “I was wrong… the thrall. Frey… Freydis. She is very pretty. She will be good for you.”

Ivar releases your wrist, letting your fingers slide back through his hair. You massage his head in gentle swipes of your fingers but it is different this time. Your hands are trembling. The worst part was knowing that it wasn’t just because he was Ivar the Boneless, scourge of Midgard. No, no… it was because Ivar the Boneless broke your heart and his? It felt as if it was weeping when he heard your sniffling cries from behind him.

“Don’t cry.” He bends his head down. “She means nothing. She could never be my Queen.”

Of course she didn’t believe him. He knows because she doesn’t stop crying, she just spills water over his hair and dries his head. When he goes to bed that night, he doesn’t dare try and curl up in your bed.

* * *

There was something bothering him about this whole ordeal. Hvitserk never showed such interest in his sex life. Not with the other women that came around. So why now?

“Why did you have me fuck that thrall?” Ivar flips a dagger between his fingers, brewing in place. His brother and he sat outside in a tent, discussions of stratagem passed. No, now there was something else eating at his head. Ask him, it said.

“I wanted you to be sure.” Hvitserk shrugs his shoulders.

Ivar doesn’t believe it for a minute. He pulls back with narrow eyes. “Since when do you want me to be sure? Hm? With Margrethe?” He suggests. No he knows what it is. He knows what it is entirely and like an idiot– he trusted his brother. It dawns on him.

“You wanted her for your bed?!” He hisses out. “After you gave her to me!”

“…Ivar.” Hvitserk says deeply. He knows what he’s walking into. “I didn’t know she loved you as much as she does.”

It’s a battle for his life. One that Hvitserk knows he’s losing when Ivar’s hand clamps around the dagger in his fingers. But… nothing comes. He lurches out to fist Hvitserk’s overtunic, words hissing with hate.

“Keep away from her.”

* * *

He decided to take you with when he went raiding. You needed a change of the environment. He made sure to send the other thrall away, releasing her, while taking you with him. You didn’t exactly know what you could do in a camp. Wash Ivar’s armour? The tent was always impeccable. You prepared him food and made sure he was constantly comfortable. Especially his horse.

Astir. You called him love because of how much you loved his master. Enough to annoy Ivar with braids in the placid pony’s hair and purple little flowers littering along his hair. The horse never seemed to mind– so Ivar shouldn’t either!

“Come here, thrall.” A free man called you from a group. The warriors stood with shieldmaidens as they filled cups of mead and spoke. You gave Astir one more little pet before picking up the bottom of your skirts, moving to where he were. The older man was one of Ivar’s closest men. No doubt he knew who you were– but the more you struggled to forgive Ivar, the shorter the time you were with him.

“Yes?” You say. “Can I get you more… mead?”

At the suggestion, the white haired man shook you off. He took a step forward and you took one back, but the table pins you between him.

“You can get me something.” The man says, hands shifting to your hips. You lean back, avoiding the scratch of his beard against your lips. Instead his mouth latches onto your shoulder, causing you to scream out sharply.

“Get off!” You shriek– and your normally peace loving self seems to shift when he throws up your skirts. Your hands tighten into a fist, jerking around to punch the man in the head. He darts up to slap you clean across the face. Fighting was only of so much good with a warrior, who probably was used to such abuse, and just as quickly he pins your hands above your head. You jerk and tug, finding that the best you can do is thrash underneath him.

“Ivar!” You sob out to the tune of the older man loosening his belt. “Master pleeaase!”

The older man gives a stuttered gasp, but not because of his cock getting the wet love it so desired. Not at all. A dagger buried in the man’s chest so deeply, that he sputtered crimson blood against your dress, dripping over you. You realize quickly that it’s Ivar’s large hand, withdrawing and plunging in a frenzy down the side of the man’s chest, deep into his ribs.

“You forget whose woman she is, Sigrid.” He plunges his dagger deep, another and another time. The space of his ribs litters with wounds. And while you can’t help but scream in fear, Ivar’s bloody face is splatters with red until he shoves the man to the ground.

“She’s mine.” He hisses. His eyes travel up, over your bloodied body. You’re positively shaking, reaching out for him.

“I… Iv.. Iv.” You can’t make out his name, but it doesn’t matter, he leans into your arms. You wrap your arms around his neck, utterly shaking as other warriors and thralls alike shift to drag the man’s body away. Some whisper among one another, but you don’t care, you just need him close.

Ivar whispers against your ear. “You know I won’t let them touch you like that…”

The words are soft and gentle in your ear and as frightened as you are, you whimper back with hands tight in his tunic once you can make the words.

“Pl…ease. Can we go to bed together?”

Ivar’s eyes are wide and blown– how he wants to. He smirks, a slow and widening gesture.

“I’ll make it all better.”


	5. Chapter V: A False Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hypersexual coping, loss of virginity in this chapter.

Ivar wasn’t exactly sure how he managed to get you back into his tent. For all it was worth, he could have taken you there on the table. But you begged him to take you back to his tent where you both fell upon the furs of his bed.

“Are you sure?” Ivar asks, even though he is already peeling your skirt past every inch of naked skin. He only saw your body once before– allowing himself some luxury at that. He could have made you show it all, but you were his delicate one. You deserved better than brutal hands forcing you to do something that he knew you wouldn’t want to do.

Besides, he finally had you where he wanted you. His lips graze soft kisses across your inner thighs, each coming closer and closer when you shift your legs a little closer together.

“I… I what if you don’t like it?” You say, hands at your mouth. Ivar chuckles, sliding your legs apart.

“Here comes the worrying.” He tsk’ed his tongue. “There’s little you could do that I wouldn’t like.”

Ivar throws up your skirts, revealing the soft mound of your cunt. Smooth– and Ivar audibly moaned lowering himself between your legs. At his first lick, you were shaking. His tongue flattened as he lapped against your folds, bringing your labia in between his lips to suck. One, then the other. He watched as you grasp his furs, legs twitching every so often when he manages to massage the right spot.

“Don’t be so shy.” Ivar pulls up from your cunt to reach for your hand. He presses it against the back of his head, letting you guide him where you wanted him to go. Your hands would massage the rows of his braids, bucking up into his mouth when he found something that struck you just right.

“Oh… oh.” You moan, rolling your hips when Ivar’s tongue laved around something near the hood of your cunt. You weren’t sure what it was, but as he presses his tongue flatly to flicker over it, you press him down hard, his nose huffing puffs of air against your cunt. It was good– more than you could say. Your hips jerk when you feel the tip of his finger prodding your entrance. He barely manages a slight bit when he lifts hums against your clitoris, sending you into a shock of an orgasm that came in hot waves against his face. You shove him in harder as you ride it out, gasping with your hand pulling back as you finish.

“What was that?” Ivar said, lapping the last bits of your excitement from your cunt.

“I… I’ve never had that before.” You say. Suddenly, Ivar stops his pursuit of your delicious slick.

“You’ve never had…” He glances up, head bent and eyes widening. “You’ve never had sex?”

You shake your head. “Christians don’t like women to.”

“We don’t either. But there is hardly a virgin in town.” Ivar laughs, pulling you down by your hips to him. He reaches over to a clay pot of oil, slickening his finger up before teasing your entrance. At first, his middle finger slides in slowly, all too slowly. The walls of your cunt swallow him up– and he can only imagine how it would be to slide inside your pussy. If this was giving him shivers, he could only imagine. His other hand came up to your hip, drawing little circles around your hips.

“You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.” Ivar leans in against your ear, whispering such words as he flickers his fingers inside of you. His lips pepper you with gentle kisses, warming you up to his movements. You feel almost ashamed to be laying back like a spoiled princess and enjoying his movements, forcing yourself to relax around his muscles. As one finger becomes two, you lean over to his trousers. He almost asks what you were doing when you pulled his cock into the cool air.

You’re never seen one. Not in the obscene drawings and certainly not now. Ivar laughs seeing your cheeks heat up at the sight. Your fingers leave to take the little ceramic pot that sat beside him. You drip it over his tip, watching as the thick fluid coursed down over his swollen shaft. He twitches which you find to be most adorable thing. How you wondered if they were all like this when Ivar’s hand left your hip, guiding your hand to stroke the oil over his hard cock.

“Good girl…” Ivar pants. He would let himself enjoy it for a few minutes longer before he pushes your hand off to the side.

“On your stomach.” Ivar reaches for a pillow, placing it in the middle of the bed. You glance to it as you flip over. Ivar is fiddling with the rest of his clothes and associated accessories– and you rest your hips over the pillow for him.

“You’ll pull out… won’t you?” You ask, “It is not safe a day.”

“Of course I will.” Ivar laughs a little as he drags himself back over to you. It was the only real answer you needed. Well, almost, anyway.

“Is it… going to hurt?” You say as he shifts above you. His forearm sets by the furs as you feel him shifting with his other hand to find where he was going. A little shyly, you pull apart your cheeks to help him. Ivar hummed in approval as the tip of his dick swirled up from your folds, nudging up against your entrance. It grazed your entrance, where your wet walls were aching in wait. Ever wanting, ever waiting. You would glance over your shoulder just so, watching Ivar’s blue eyes concrete with concentration.

“A little.” He grins, ducking his head back down with his tip lining up. He presses his hips in– sliding the tip of his cock past your tightly knit walls. You gasp out, your own forearm that rests beside his darting out to grab his own hand. Your hips squirm underneath as if there was somewhere to go– but Ivar’s hips pin you tight against him.

“Sshh.” Ivar whispers, thrusting himself deeper inside. Inch by inch, he presses himself deeper. “I won’t hurt you.”

With his hips rocking inside you, you clench your hand with Ivar’s. His lips salve the ache of your cunt, kissing along the crook of your neck as his hips rock deep. For all the pain, the pleasure of your master spreading you wide open for him, pried open and so full of his dick is alluring. You’re just so full of him.

“You’re trying my ability to control myself…” Ivar murmurs and you quickly realize you’re so tightly clenched around him that he is shaking. You mind yourself to release– and he takes a heavy breath. You hadn’t realized how hard your master was trying to control himself when finally his hips shift out of your warm core. It last seconds before he presses himself back in, sinking his dick back in to fill you.

“Oh master–” You shudder, the pain beginning to reccede layer by layer. Ivar’s other hand steadies himself as he plunges his body in and out of you, pumping himself as if he couldn’t control himself.

“Screw that. Ivar,” He corrects, his breath failing to keep quiet. “My name is Ivar.”

Your hips lean up to welcome each pump back into your cunt. “I knew that.” You moan almost sassily. Again he hums in agreement, working his dick harder inside of you if possible. You’re suddenly grateful for that pillow as he ruts deep. Your fingers feel lit aflame, hot with excitement in receiving each and every thrust that takes you over.

“Fuck,” He pants, slumping over you. His mouth latches upon your neck, suckling welts that he knows Hvitserk will see. Fuck him, he deserved to see how wonderful he could make you feel. “Fuck, I knew you’d be tight but–” Another moan. “– how do you do this to me?”

He’s spiraling to his peak, quickly at that. His hand slips around your body, approaching your mound to find that little button that drove you wild. His fingers dance around it, back and forth back and forth with harsh flicks of his fingers. He takes the very wind out of your lungs, forcing you to do nothing but clench him tightly inside.

“Gods!” Ivar shrills, drips of sweat dripping down his back. He can’t take it. It’s one thing to know that your body wanted him so much. But he needs more… and more. “Let me cum inside of you.”

His words don’t go unnoticed. His mouth seals around your neck, digging a frantic bite mark through your skin. You shriek out between the sound of his hips snapping against your behind, pushing himself deeper more quickly so.

“Take it– t…take my seed.” Ivar gasps, “I need you to take it.”

Moaning, your hand left Ivar’s to reach back and dig your nails into his hips. He’s shifting the best he can, pushing his cock to the limit against your cervix. He kisses close to it with every thrust, earning himself your desperate shrieks under his fingertips.

“You said you wouldn’t.” You gasp unsure where to grind first– his fingers or the wonderful motion of his hips that left you speechless. You decide to do with his fingers and quickly found that Ivar’s hips follow after.

“I know– I know what I said.” Ivar’s breath comes out harsh and forced, kissing along your neck to your ear. “But please. Please, let me seed you. You don’t know– what you do to me.”

The only thing you could do was cry out, your walls spasming mercilessly with the build up of pressure between your legs. You can feel your slick spiilling over Ivar’s cock– hard and weeping for an orgasm that he was holding out on. You were too.

“Ivar–” You begin.

“I’ll do anything for it.” Ivar snarls. “I’ll take responsibility. I’ll give you anything– fuck, you’re going to!”

If just off his words, the desperation in which he sought after your cunt, bouts of pleasure as sharp as his blade careened down your body. Your walls clamped around him, trying their best to will the orgasm out from under his fingers, but he clung onto it as tightly as his arm was now wrapped around to your shoulder. The other hand still worshipped your sex despite his frantic whimpering behind you. Please.

“Master– it’s, it’s okay.” You turn your face down to his. Ivar took opportunity enough to lift his face to yours, lips caught up in your own. His hips fuck into you, with eyes clenching tight, spilling a heavy load of his seed into your cunt while you press down upon him to take him fully. Pathetic sobs wrack through his body as he cums, filling you full of him.

Everything was hazy against his lips. A strong kiss led into a softer kiss– and the softer kiss led into simple lips worshipping his through his orgasm until he was milked dry by your more than purposeful clenching around him. His sharp eyes groggily open back up to look at you– and you giggle gently.

“You’ve made a mess.” You say, coming up to tap his nose.

Ivar’s hand rubs away the beading of sweat, petting down tight rolls of his braids. “I did…” He said. “So what is it… that you want for my mess?”

The possibilities were endless.


	6. Chapter VI: Freedom

You wanted a night outside.

He was expecting you to want golden bracelets, some sexual favour or more importantly, your freedom. But no. No, no, no. His simple girl couldn’t ask for any of that. After all of that– all you wanted was to go outside and watch the stars twinkle late at night. He made it a priority to take you as soon as they landed back in Kattegat. You had been different. Fearful of other men and took comfort in sex and cuddles when you could. Hvitserk had labelled you his bed slave.

A title he detested but as Hvitserk quoted it, who would blame him? You were just a slave. Anyone could do anything with you… even kill you.

But you weren’t just a slave. You were his precious girl, though a Christian girl, and you slowly turned your heart away from Saxon ways. At the moment, you had ditched his crutch to prance through tall blades of grass, spinning on your toes and looking up to the glittering heavens above.

“Do you think Nott is still riding the heavens?” You say, your sheer dress spinning out with wispy white fabric coming to a stop. Ivar lurched forward on his crutch, groaning as the earth below fought him.

“She should be.” Ivar answers as you lay out furs for him to sit on. He groans as he sits down, crutch over his lap and you marvel at the glittering stars.

“I think… that it is wonderful to behold.” Your hands come to stop in front of your body. You travel up to wispy strands of your hair that have been loosened from their braids. “I think I would love to be like Nott. She’s so free from everything…”

Free from bonds of slavery– or free from your newest ailment? How sorrowful your eyes looked when you thought he wasn’t looking. As if you thought that he wouldn’t see. Ivar leans back on his forearms.

“I have been thinking.” Ivar starts when you drop beside him, reaching into the basket to pull an apple to his lips. He eats of it as you prepare him something to eat.

“What have you been thinking?” You chirp gladly.

“I have been thinking… that I want to set you free.” Ivar bends his head, eyes scanning around the fur he sits.

You drop the bread in your hands, gazing at him in awe. “You’re setting me free?” You gasp, hands slapping together to a clasp. He wished you wouldn’t look so happy.

“To keep you safe… from men like Sigrid and Hvitserk.” Ivar says. Mainly Hvitserk. Your smile drops at that moment. He knows that this is discomforting for you to talk about just as you rub your arms shyly. You slump against his chest, turning your nose against his neck.

“Do we have to talk about him?” You ask. Ivar’s hand travels up your back, tucking your hair behind his ear.

“Of course not. We can talk about it when you are ready.” Ivar sighs. It’s hard for his little Christian girl to talk of things he knows you deem as being humiliating. But it isn’t your fault. It’s his. He should never have taken you raiding. Especially knowing whom might be prowling around in that camp looking for a warm place to push their dick in. No, it wasn’t your fault.

It was still his– and the guilt followed him every day. He failed as a protector.

“You can go home.” Ivar feels his heart tighten as he speaks. He didn’t want you to go to Wessex or anywhere else you might run away to. To his surprise, your head shakes moist with little budding tears.

“I don’t want to go to Wessex.” You mumble, turning your cheek up. Ivar’s hand comes down to rub the bubbling tears away from the curve of your cheek. “I want to stay with you.”

With him? What forlorn excitement budded in his stomach. He felt his heart beating hard, thump, thump THUMP. You must have heard it too, because a small giggle spills out of your lips. You raise a hand to draw circles against his firm bicep.

“Would you like me to stay too?” You ask.

He made you free. You should have been running to the nearest boat. Running back to your Christ god and strange Saxon ways. Running… away from him. Ivar’s face is dumbfounded, mistified.

“Maybe.” Ivar says. Your lips protrude into a pout– and suddenly, he feels the pressure to spill his heart out. What if you left him? Just like this.

“I want everything to stay as it is.” He sighs. “With you in my bed after a long day.”

The words came out far more awkwardly than he thought them out to be. He meant that his routing would be the same– dinner, you helping him clean himself, sex or no sex and bed. In a way, he was dependent on it. The way your fingers moved along his head to will away the normally beating headaches or how your legs intertwined with his stupid, useless ones that for once, didn’t feel quite so useless.

“That sounds like slavery.” You point out, lips pursing into a fish like pout. Ivar rolls his eyes up before looking down to you.

“I believe they also call that marriage.” He snarks back. That finally gets you to shift up, resting on your hip in shock. Ivar digs into his trousers in search of his gift to you. He holds up a ring and as your lips part in shock, he shushes you. He slides a ring of garnet and gold onto your finger.

“You’re free. Now, you have to be Heathen to marry me. But I think… you already let go of your Christ god.” Ivar remarks. You spoke of the gods frequently. Of Angrboda and Sigyn’s love, Nott’s chariots scaling the sky and how the Norns had everything in good faith. With the changes occuring as of late– he had no time to lecture you on your religious beliefs.

“Have you?” He asks again.

“I.. I am scared.” You say, bringing the ring to your eyes to look at it. You were scared because you knew what you were raised with. But… if the other god abandoned you, the Heathen gods were lifting you up.

“I know.” Ivar concedes. “You are lost.”

“But I do not feel lost–” You say, distinctly swearing you had this conversation before things went terribly wrong last time with him.

Ivar scoffs. “Then there’s no reason to be afraid to be my wife. Marry me.”

You supposed that if Ivar was there… there was little reason to be afraid. He would care for you. He would love you. You knew he wouldn’t leave you astray. He hadn’t yet. Why would he? You smile, taking his hands with yours.

“I’ll be your wife!” You shriek, shifting onto your knees and bobbing in place like one of Floki’s tiny toy boats in the water. Ivar released a breath of air he didn’t know he was holding. She said yes. She agreed to be his wife. Now, he couldn’t wait to see her as his bride.


	7. VII: Never Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rest of this fic is pure fluff.

He knew something was different by the way she was acting. His woman was normally bubbly and bright– but today, it was excessive. Your cheeks had a wide arched smile up into your cheeks when he came in, hardly even allowing him to bathe from the dry blood that splattered his face. He quickly realized that he was becoming heavily dependent on your fingers willing away your headaches and body in his bed. But if you were going to be his wife in a year, he supposed that it made no difference anyway. It would however be a pain when he had to go raiding and could not take you with him. Mental note: see if his butterball brained woman would consider learning the arts of a shieldmaiden.

But at the moment, those notes and massages were far away. He barely managed to get his overtunic over his head when you forced him moooooove. Move because he was as slow as cattle; and not just because he was a cripple.

“What is the rush?” Ivar asks as you push him into his throne. He was hungry– thirsty. But you bid his attention with those brilliant eyes leering excitedly at him. He grunts, taking the ends of his armed chair into his hands as you sweep around the room in a flurry of your skirts. You rush to pour him a bit of ale before he calls you over again, finally coming to his side with one of the flowers you picked drooping down your long messy braid. Ivar outstretches his palm with the passing beats of his chest pulsing in anxiety, deciding to tuck the flower back into place. Did you decide to go back home? Perhaps you wanted to push up the wedding like he so desired: to be his wife fully and–

“The midwife says I’m with your child!” You say, jittering in front of him so much so that his ale spills over your hands. The thoughts crashed all together. Ivar cranes his neck up towards you, not realizing that a breathy ‘ahh’ had spilled from his lips.

Aaaaah.

Not an aaah of glee but one of shock or terror. You’re not exactly sure which when his eyes are blown so wide! He looks like a rigid statue in a stale church on Sunday morning.

“You’re not happy?” You say with your hands at your breasts. You form tight fists as you lean forth. Ivar’s none the more interested in your words until he realizes that the soft cries? Those were yours, not his. Ivar blinks as he snaps back to attention, blinking slowly with a shake of his head.

“Of course I am happy. What kind of man isn’t happy for such news?” He rushes the words out, hands drifting up to his dark hair to fold behind his head. “I… only know you are…”

Words. They weren’t coming. You were nearly injured by his men. You were his fragile ex-christian girl with so much left to learn about Vikings ways. You needed to learn to care for yourself when he was away. What if someone tried to take his young family? What if he was an incapable father– much less an incapable husband? What then, what then, what then? His thoughts whizz by his head like a horse drawn chariot; so quick that he’s left with nothing to say. You can practically see the way that he considers this! Badly… and it shows as you jitter in front of him.

“You said you would take responsibility!” You exclaim, almost regretting letting him cum in you that first time. Ivar feels the pressure building up in his head. That tiny headache has welled up into a boulder on his neck.

“Of course I will take responsibility.” Ivar says, looking up to your cheeks. Crystalline tears are flowing down your cheeks and he realizes he forgot about your worries. his beautiful viking girl thought that he might actually go back on his words and abandon you. What sort of man would he be to abandon a pregnant woman?

“I am happy! It is… the shock.” He says as you turn away, pouting. Barely out of reach, Ivar plucks up his crutch, pulling it around your hips to drag you back into his lap. You walk back onto his lap for fear of harming the baby in your belly– and Ivar knew you would do just that when you plop down on his soft pants, scooching your way up against him. Ivar would wind his thick arms around your waist to keep you in place against him.

“(Y/N).” He says.

“What?” You respond thinking that he wasn’t going to let it go. But neither were you! He was supposed to be happy and worship you in kisses. Ivar cuts short the silence, placing a few soft kisses against your shoulder. All of the tension and poutiness? Gone in a matter of seconds.

“Don’t be mad at me, mm?” He says, words thick like the way he woke so excitedly in the mornings. “Are you mad?”

He has began to learn the things that make you tick, soft kisses in the morning and pretty flowers are only a few of the things. If he wasn’t wrong, he thought you also liked seeing him come home victorious and splattered in blood.

“Nooo. How could I be mad at you?” You smile, rubbing his knuckles around your waist. You lean your head back to kiss him on the cheek with an overwhelming warm tenderness that sets a sigh in him. Finally with your fit cooled, he orients himself back against the throne and drifts his head back as well. You were pregnant. His brothers were completely wrong. You were pregnant and he had been the one to do it. Ivar grunts when you fall back onto him, gazing up at the ceiling as if it had the secrets of the universe etched in their fashioning.

“What are we looking at?” You giggle.

He holds back a stupid grin, letting his hands stroke over your thin stomach– thin compared to the changes that might take hold if he was lucky enough. He didn’t want to hope where there may not be any. But at the same time…

“I’ll be a father.” Ivar turns back to you.

“And I’ll be a mother!” You exclaim, echoing in the empty room. Then Ivar turns to you– something occurring to him. For your honor, he felt the pressure to act hurry and make arrangements to rectify this situation.

“Lets push up the wedding.” Ivar says. You face him with an uncertain smile. As of late you had been feeling sick and an all day event where you couldn’t slink away to be sick in a corner? You were a little anxious about it. The festivities would be SO long! Could you really stick out that whole thing this early in the pregnancy?

“But what if I’m sick?” You ask.

“Would you rather wait until you can hardly walk?” Ivar chides, running his fingers down your stomach. No, of course not. It would be even worse to do it then. You had to stick it out early– because waiting another year? It wasn’t happening. What if Ivar forgot his promise to marry you!?

“In a few weeks then.” You substitute with a pout. Ivar bobs his head almost triumphantly, a grin pulling up on either side of those handsome cheeks. He won that fight and he knows it. Now he couldn’t wait to see your stomach brew with his child– and let Hvitserk see how very capable he was of impregnating his soon to be wife.

He’d never try to take his wife again.


	8. Chapter VIII: Too Big!

You were the type of girl to notice a change in everyone. From the youngest of thralls, whom annoyingly fell sick and you demanded Ivar give her a break, to the more fortunate. Like prince Hvitserk whom was oddly distant lately. It wasn’t just that Ivar asked you to keep away from him, it was the way he bore off in the distance as the days flicker by. You became round with your fiance’s child.

Almost too round, too quick. Ivar made sure that a midwife would come to speak to you today. Hvitserk found it bizarre that you would ask him to join you while the midwife spoke to you about your child. Of course he couldn’t deny you, however.

“Yes, yes I can see how he might be concerned.” The midwife’s fingers massaged the round bump of your stomach. Your wedding was tomorrow! You had to find out the answer for why you had gotten so round, so pregnant, so quick.

“Is it bad?” You chirp.

“No, no it’s more than that.” The midwife says, measuring your stomach with a bout of cloth. “I think you are going to have twins!”

Hvitserk staggered off his foot, the apple in his mouth crunching harder as the midwife shot him a dirty look.

“She’s the one that will have to deliver them, what are you anxious about?” She laughs, turning back to you. Most women would have overwhelmed, fearful or sobbing in excitement. You? You were a bundle of smiles and laughs, leaning up with your round belly in your lap.

“Twins!” You shriek off the top of your lungs, looking from side to side of your belly. You aren’t sure which to focus on. The boys or girls, perhaps double of either, and find yourself overly proud in Ivar. He gave you twins! You were certain it was he. He had to have given you these little babies to love. Hvitserk wears an even look when your eyes settle back over him. Not only did he not want to make a scene when this was about you– you knew there was something on his mind.

There was certainly something on yours.

“I’m so happy! How should I tell him? I mean I’ve already told him about the one but he’s going to be a father to two! Frigg blessed us!” You shriek and somehow– the midwife finds it cute, if not a little obnoxious how sweetly you latched onto the real gods. Everyday Ivar assured you that you would learn more. You did bit by bit and now, the gods were rewarding you for your good work in learning with Ivar.

“How you always tell him.” She answers, packing her things as you squeal in glee.

“Tomorrow! I’ll tell him at the wedding!” You exclaim, thanking her about a million times. A million times she told you not to thank her sooo much either. At the end of it all, you gave Hvitserk a sickly sweet smile and urge him to come closer.

“What is on your mind Hvitserk?” You ask. The older Ragnarsson came a bit shyly forward like a puppy. There’s something that weighs heavy on his mind and thus, it weighed heavy on yours. He says nothing at first.

“Please?” You push and nag at him, finding that he snaps at the last. Somehow, you wished that he never told you what ate at his mind. It began to eat at yours as you dressed late at night in a new nightgown. Ivar was late for his bath, late to eat and late to cuddle. He had business to attend to. When he did breach the door as the insects chirped at the moon kissed high into the sky, you were still awake.

* * *

You couldn’t sleep worth shit.

You’d surely wake up with bags under those ‘pretty eyes’ or so Ivar lectured you time to time. It didn’t matter. This… this matter was important. You had to talk to him about it, about what happened and why it happened. It was eating you alive.

“Ivar?”

He knew he was in trouble the moment he heard your voice. He slips into your bed late at night, arms instinctually wrapping around his little boy– or, so he hoped, little girl. There was plenty of time to have boys. He knew he would have them. His father had so many boys that surely he would have a few. But a girl? Now that would be a gift to come across.

“What is it?” Ivar whispers against your ear. A smooth, gentle voice that is even and consoling. It should have been as there was little he could have done that wouldn’t console you. This new knowledge you gathered though… it made things different.

“Why did you kill your brother?” You find your words slide out in the lightest of whispers. Ivar’s hands feel heavy as weights. You knew. How could you know? He had gone such great lengths to make sure you wouldn’t know what he’d done to Sigurd. It had been only a few years, but it felt heavy on his conscious.

“How did you find out?” He asks.

“Does it matter?” You turn in his muscular arms, running your fingers up to the top of his shoulders. You would stroke the tense muscle there and lean your head back on the fluffy pillows. No, he supposes it doesn’t matter. You had a right to know.

“He tortured me at the wrong time.” Ivar says smoothly. “It was after Mother’s death… he should not have pushed me.”

It sounds handily dandily like an excuse. It must have been easy to blame the deadman. After all, the dead could not speak. But something about the whole thing seems deeper to Ivar than simply accounting for the dead brother he never should have had. It wasn’t as if he was ready when you asked your next question.

“Would you hurt me?” You supply. “If you hurt your brother, I am sure you would. Brothers have a bond.”

Ivar thought he proved himself. He did not hurt you when you caught him ‘cheating.’ He did not hurt you when another man tried to force himself upon you and he did not hurt you now that you brought up the blonde brother.

“I love you. Life feels easier when you are with me.” Ivar huffs out. “It was not the same with Sigurd. We were always complicated.”

Obviously so! You think otherwise he would be around still rather than dead with a wound in his side or wherever it was that Ivar had launched his axe. You broil over the issue as you listen to him groan out something else– explaining to your his entire relationship with Sigurd. At the end of it all, you understood.

They tortured each other.

* * *

You were confident that Ivar wouldn’t hurt your children. It was different from a brother– his sons or daughters were beautiful things that you knew he always wanted. If he could just watch his temper, everything would be for the better.

“Do you think it is pretty, Saeunn?” You ask one of your thralls. The little girl winds your hair with flowers, topping your head in a crown of her most favourite shades of yellow and pink. You thought it would be cute to let her join in somehow. Since she fell ill and recovered, you had her joining in the most minor of ways. Today– it was with your flower crown on your head. Light and jovial for your swollen belly, you loved the way you felt in it. So pretty and elegant!

“He will think his wife is beautiful!” She giggles as you breach the tent toward the area where Ivar stood waiting. He sat on a stump looking cocky as he may in the dark green overtunic that you asked him to wear. Under that confidence you knew he was a bundle of nerves. He couldn’t fool you! You knew him so well.

You came to sit in front of him during the sacrifice– hands in his when the volva begins to recite a prayer to Frigga. As she finishes, you look up to the heavens then to her. You whisper something into the volva’s ear which he should have been skeptical about in the first place. The volva nods to you.

“I would like to thank our high mother Frigg.” Your hands are at your stomach. “Because not only has she blessed us with a child, but two!”

Your thanks go over well with the crowd, roaring in life. Both of excitement, jovial laughter at how the boneless one was not so boneless. But most of all, it’s Ivar whose face is as pale as the clouds in the sky.

“Aah… Twins?” He shakes.

“Twins.” You say back, a full frontal smile brightening your face from ear to ear. Ivar didn’t even remember hitting the ground until you hover over him, hand clad in a beautiful ring that he fashioned for you. Nothing else registered for him. Not the puffing white clouds or crowd of his people, no, but the smile on your face as you whispered twins in his ear again. It wasn’t a dream.

He was going to have twins.


	9. Chapter IX: Kitten!

A twin pregnancy was a blessing. Frigg smiled upon his union with you– good. He worried that your upbringing would bring the smite of the gods. It couldn’t be further from the truth. She had given him two children that brewed in your stomach. The skin was pulling tight. The many months had passed and all who looked upon King Ivar the Boneless knew that something was off with him.

Ivar was mistaken in thinking pregnancy was for the woman. That anything that would come of dramatic emotions would be her. His beautifully innocent woman pregnant by his seed would be falling apart. Instead, he found his thoughts unable to stay away. The construction of defenses, the threat of his brothers invading Kattegat… it all weighed heavy on his mind. He knew he had to keep himself even minded. As even minded as Ivar the Boneless could get.

But the increasing threat against his hearth and home, his pregnant wife… it was beginning to get the better of him. He was agitated.

“Ivar what are you doing?” You murmur against his furs that are strewn over your naked form. Ivar slips away the furs around your stomach. You were in and out or sleep constantly. Ivar’s fingers were in a warm, sticky substance; blood. They drew layered protective runes over your stomach.

“Protecting my children.” He murmurs, low between your legs. He was hardly worried of the threat– but there were snakes everywhere. Especially Hvitserk, whom he became more and more anxious over.

“Frigg will take care of me. Ivar… Ivar I’m sleepy.” You shift upon your forearms, lips split into a smile. How many months had passed? Enough so that your seventh was approaching and an important ritual as well.

“Hm.” Ivar restlessly looks to the side of the bowl of blood he has brought, moving his fingers over a blade that glimmers in the early morning light. It’s freshly etched with runes. “I forgot to give you your marriage present.”

A dagger. He knows you’re disheartened by the gift when your eyes drop away from it. Most women received pretty things from their new husbands like fluffballs of mewling affection. Or… not so much affection sometimes.

“O-Oh. It’s… pretty?” You’re trying to be nice.

“You need to learn to fight. You’re a mother now.” Ivar moves to sit now. He extends the grip out to you to which you do not take.

“I don’t know how well I can do it like this.” You move to sit up with the assistance of your husband’s free hand.

“If a cripple can fight, so can you. What if I can’t be there to protect you from every Sigrid?”

This was coming out of nowhere. You understood the threats… even if you did not understand his family. You knew how stressed he had been as of late. You extend your hand to take the dagger and set it into your lap.

“If I try– will you stop being so nervous?” You reach out to the back of his neck to pull him forward. With lips against lips, you speak. “What is this really about?”

Every thought he had of late whizzed by his mind until Ivar’s face would twitch, looking down with a small decrepit frown. “Mother didn’t fight either and look what Lagertha made of her.”

It suddenly made sense. Sigurd’s death, the death of his mother all weighed heavy on his mind. You knew that in a way, it should be expected. This rare break in his heavy demeanor shading over Kattegat’s people. It wasn’t fear of those out there– it was fear of the unknown. The gods stood with Ivar and so you thought you had nothing to fear.

“The gods love you and so do I. I love you so much, Ivar.” You tilt away from his lips, tossing the sword over the bed. The blood spills upon the furs of your shared bed as you slide on top of him. The pressure of his twins against his stomach strikes his attention enough to calm you down with his hands caressing your swell.

“Do you.” He says more like a statement. No one loved him– no one but mother. Everyone felt obligated toward him. For so long, he thought everyone felt the same.

“More than anything!” You swell pridefully.

Ivar drops his head back onto the plush pillows of his fathers– no his bed. He glares up to the wooden ceiling with a shake of his head. His tongue caresses the hard surface of his teeth that still taste like the blood from the sacrificial animal.

“Well, almost anything.” You giggle with your hands atop of Ivar’s stomach. He looks down to find your stomach protruding over your thighs, annoyingly aware of his children that are close. A few months off and he would be a father.

“Mm, way to make me feel like your prime choice.” He laments.

“A mother should always think of her children first! You, Ivar the Boneless, can take care of your little self.”

Ivar’s chest inflates with a puff of air. Before– you were the one to cling onto him. You still were, in your sweetest unique way. As you collapse onto his arm with a little giggle and promise a hundred times over that you meant it in the sweetest possible way, Ivar would raise his arm to stroke over your shoulder.

“Of course you did.” He murmurs, nose dipping against your fluffy hair. His nostrils flare as he takes in your scent, so uniquely you. Somewhere between the hints of floral and warm scents of spices, he can just barely make out his mother’s in the bed they once used to share with one another. He still missed her everyday. It occured to him, for the first time ever: she would never meet his children. He could have wept.

“I bought you a kitten.” He grumbles– looking to the wiggling basket on the edge of the bed. He never saw a pregnant woman move so quick, abandoned like foul meats for the soft mewl of a white and grey fluff ball set with the bluest of eyes.

“A KITTY!”

His wife was a child.


	10. Chapter X: Blessed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUPER multiple birth below. I know the likelihood of this what not, but it was just for fun and cuteness.

There was something special about seeing you carry out old Viking traditions. You were like a sponge, soaking up all the knowledge you could manage. After months and months of pregnancy, Ivar began to feel the guilt in what he had done impregnating you. Because well, fuck, you were exhausted.

It didn’t show on your personality. You were bubbly and excitable– but whenever it was late at night, he felt your swollen ankles and aching back. Right now you were hunched over, drawing runes on a slab of wood between your thickened thighs. He lay behind you bare, his legs to the side of you as you drew upon the wood.

“What are you doing, huh?” Ivar teases the shell of your ear with a nip. His large hands encompass the space of your shoulders, massaging the ache away.

“Making the chords for the babies.” You lean back, flopping against his study chest when you finish drawing out the runes. He laments to think that he would have to burn that piece of wood and drink it in his mead. That would be delicious.

You would dye strands black, red and white. The black to be burned and buried at birth, the white to tie the cord and the red wound be strung with amber and tied around his little children’s wrists. Ivar watches as you measure out the yarn.

“It’s too long. It’ll be like a necklace.” He remarks.

You throw him a little pouty lipped smile to shut him up. “Men don’t know anything about these things, Ivar.”

“Whatever you say. You’re the pregnant one.” He grunts out, sliding your hair away from your neck. You relax back while his worn fingers stroke over your jawline. You had gotten sassy in the pregnancy but with the weight and ache on your bones, he isn’t surprised. “The very pregnant one.”

Had it not passed time for you to deliver? The thought is concerning to Ivar. If it were anyone else, he would tell them to stop. That if the gods wanted these children, then everything would be in their hands. But this was his family. The children could be born like him, and while it had been a blessing, it began as a curse.

“Frigg has her keys locked in the doorway.” You say, confident in your thought. Frigg was the one who had hardened your cervix and locked in his twins. He gives you a playful nuzzle.

“Let’s loosen her hold.”

You giggle too cutely.

* * *

He had been busy that day. With Hvitserk’s betrayal back to his eldest brother, things were loud. Loud… louder. Ivar came into the Great Hall in a hurry, the war dead on the walls only to walk into another incredible war. The howling cries spilling from the back ripping up his wife’s throat tells him all he needs to know. You were in labour. A thrall shot out of the backroom, knocking a flickering flame to the ground that hands off a wooden beam.

“MY KING! MY KING! HURRY!” The girl is frantic, long strands of flaxen hair clumped with red. She jingles with her silver keys on her breast. His heart crashes almost literally through the floor. It didn’t take but short seconds for him to break through to your shared room with Ivar.

“How is she?!” Ivar says, somehow having abandoned his crutch. His strong arms carry him through the curtains and into the room where sheets lay in bloody heaps over the wooden floor, saturating the hardwood floors in thick blood.

Oh. Ohhh.

“This is the last one, my Queen!” The midwife says softly. The last one? There was only two. But as Ivar straightens out his back and squares his shoulders he counts the thralls and healers in the room buzzing about so frantically that they almost trip over his limp legs. There must have been thirty women cramped into this room. Even a few men that he would banish for being less than a man to work in this line of work. If not for the fact that they were blessing you with their staffs.

How many babies?

“I can’t do it anymore.” Your breath is raspy and hot. Uncharacteristically for you. You would do anything, that was his wife.

One... two...

“If your little boy could survive being strangled, you can survive one more!” The healer snaps. “Focus!”

Your breath comes in hot pants as if you nearly gasp for air. Sharp grunts spill forth as your favorite little thrall tugs her king in your direction, her milky dress stained red.

“Rest this contraction. He’s here, my queen he’s here!” The little girl says. Ivar drags himself over to where you are on a naked bed. The hardwood was the only surface below you as your breast raises and falls. You hardly cared when he came in. Ivar knew that it was in no way like you either. He invades your space, slipping his forearms on either side of your head as you let out another roaring wail like the pound of a man’s axe against his shield.

“Frigga, mighty mother.” He whispers, the broad bridge of his nose brushing against yours. Your tightly constricted eyes loosen, slowly so– and you look at him. “Grant my wife your keys, loosen our child from your arms and push her through the doorway of birth.”

The cycle of pushing and sobbing continued, your hands gripping his wrists so hard that he was sure that his bones might crack. Then with a loud cry, your grip loosened on his arm. Ivar watches as your head drops back.

“(Y/N)?” Ivar grasps your cheek in his hand.

“I’m okay.” Your eyes shut tiredly– and as he finally looks to the midwife, she has moved away with his last child. A another female thrall takes her place to assist in the afterbirth. Probably knowing that if it were a man he would explode. Ivar pulls away when another thrall bends to her knees before him. Then the other four as well as the last clears the breathing ways. He worries about them all as he counts them. Three daughters and three sons. Then he looks back to you, dazed by the midwife desperately pushing her hands upon your womb.

“Find me a few wet nurses, now, girl.” He tells the young thrall beside you. As she bursts through the room, he accounts for each child with their noisy breathing. Each with that so deemed ‘long’ strand of red yarn bearing a piece of amber on their wrists. Some are more swollen than others, but all equally beautiful and with them all before him, reality sank in like a rock.

Four babies. Two boys. Two Girls.

One mother. One father.

None of them were dead.

The math wasn’t adding up.

“You gave me… four…” He murmurs and as if you had heard him; you lift yourself weakly onto your scratched up forearms. Your tired eyes are heavily lidded.

“I did!” You say in what he could only describe as pride. He has no idea where you can pull the strength out to be perky. At that moment, with two of his children in his arms, he leans in to steal a kiss from your exhausted lips. He can taste the blood on your lips from how hard you had bitten your lips during the delivery.

Then as you smile, a thought hits him hard.

“Sometimes I wonder if mother sent you.” Ivar sets the knowledge to you. Anyone knows how harshly she treated Christians… but your conversion was honest and quick when you arrived. He knows that.

“Why do you say that?” You ask.

“Because…” He looks between all of his children and his now– incredibly large family. “You really are my blessing.”


End file.
